


A Quiet Life

by anotherbird



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Smoking, Starts in Blackwater, Tags May Change, Work In Progress, a lot of smoking, frenemies to lovers, idiots to lovers, internalized heteronormativity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-01-28 23:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21400219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherbird/pseuds/anotherbird
Summary: "Blackwater’s a ripe fruit, son." Dutch had insisted. "We just need to find out the best way to pluck it."Arthur did know about fruit plucking since the one summer he had spent as a hand on an orchard and couldn’t get the foul sweet smell of overly ripe peaches out of his nostrils even for weeks after.He knew that if you squeezed a ripe fruit too hard there wasn’t much left to pluck and Blackwater was definitely as rotten as a foul peach.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & John Marston, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	1. Riding Shotgun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wanted to write a sequel to my one shot "I'm a rover", but then this happened and it kind of will be and kind of won't. (Obviously no knowledge of said one shot is required, it takes places after "Blessed are the Peacemakers") This turned out to be quite self-indulgent, but I still hope some of you enjoy this and come along for the ride.
> 
> On a side note: this first chapter has some Arthur/male OC, but it only plays a role in this prologue.

It was a little too cold for April in Blackwater. Well, far too cold probably. The breeze on the docks was chilly enough to require a coat and the weather was on ongoing debate between locals and travelers alike. Snippets of their conversations blew over to Arthur’s place on the bench. He closed his journal and stowed it in his satchel, when someone sat down next to him. He then pulled out a fresh package of premium cigarettes instead and offered them to the man, who took one without any hesitation. Arthur got one for himself and lit up a match.

They smoked in silence for a while. A sea-gull watched them from the rail in front of them, but fled, when Arthur’s companion started to cough. 

“Bought a new journal, I see?” Hosea’s voice still sounded a little strained, but Arthur knew better than to ask for his well-being. He knew the answer, the eyeroll and the accompanying throwaway gesture by heart.

Hosea threw the stump of the cigarette away, which caught the gull’s attention again. It hopped closer again, curious but wary. 

“Was on sale in the general store.” Arthur shrugged and shooed the gull away from the leftover cigarette with his boot. The bird glared at him. “Missed it. The writing.”

Arthur didn’t need to look at Hosea. He knew the little smile. 

“So how’s the town treating you, _ Archie _?” 

Arthur rolled his eyes at the mocking tone.

“Think I got the lead, we needed.”

* * *

Blackwater, as it turned out, was much bigger than both Dutch and Hosea had anticipated - which should’ve been no surprise since twenty years had passed since any of them had stepped one foot into town. The trading post had turned into a real town alright. 

_ It’s a ripe fruit, son. _ Dutch had insisted. _ We just need to find out the best way to pluck it. _

Arthur did know about fruit plucking since the one summer he had spent as a hand on an orchard and couldn’t get the foul sweet smell of overly ripe peaches out of his nostrils even for weeks after. Avoided peaches like the plague since then. 

He knew that if you squeezed a ripe fruit too hard there wasn’t much left to pluck and Blackwater was as rotten as a foul peach. No arguing in that (Arthur had proposed that the town was less like a ripe fruit, but had grown like a fungus instead, which Hosea found hilarious but left Dutch in mild annoyance.)

So in the end - of course - they decided to pluck that fruit. They set up camp at the Aurora Basin in the forests of Tall Trees. It was close enough to town to not feel like the wilderness entirely, but safe enough and easy to guard. Hosea and Arthur were sent into town to spy for opportunities. Arthur was - even if he didn’t say so - relieved that Hosea had picked him out for the job. 

The last couple of weeks had taken a toll on his nerves and wore them thin enough that he was sure he would go off, if provoked too much (which may or may not have let to an almost brawl with both Callander boys). For months he hadn’t been able to leave camp even for a single night, being constantly on the move, but was stuck with Micah Bell, a man as eager to get into Dutch’s good graces as he was prone to unnecessary violence. Then there was Marston's and Abigail’s headache inducing constant fighting that only seemed to get worse over time, which led everyone to hope that they would either fuck or kill each other already, but neither seemed to happen. Dutch’s excessive speeches and Sean constantly babbling about his Da weren’t helping either. 

The opportunity to have some time away from all of this (even if it meant changing the bars of camp for the golden cage of a growing town) was too good to give up - as much as he’d die for those people, just as much did he want to strangle them from time to time. He would’ve preferred a couple of days just roaming around over stepping foot in the city, but at least it was a way out. 

So while Hosea - or Hamish Williams as he called himself at the moment - booked a room at the Althewaye Inn on Main Street, Arthur stayed next doors in a nice tidy room on the upper floor of the Saloon. They would meet occasionally to exchange leads and headed back to camp once or twice a week.

Hosea - of course - was the first of them to sniff out an opportunity. Apparently some real estate crooks had only recently moved into town and intended to buy land cheap from people dumb or desperate enough to sell. 

That was the rumor at least.

What they needed now were details. Names. Contacts. Verification. 

So they invented Archibald Callahan. A dumb rich heir, who had only recently inherited land, he now intended to sell so he could return to the “old world”. (It wasn’t much of a surprise to Arthur. His repertoire of roles was rather limited, if existent at all, and “rich man ready to lose his money to even bigger idiots” was one of Hosea’s favourite acts for him)

Now all Arthur had to do was being found. 

So he spent his days keeping his eyes and ears open for opportunities and playing bait. He dropped his name here and there, bragged a lot, but not too much. Enough to be noticed without drawing too much attention to himself. Enough to be heard and talked about. He ate good and sometimes took a stroll through town with the girls, let them listen to some of the easily swayed fools in town, keeping an eye out for any trouble. So far nothing had shown up that got anyone excited. Rumors remained rumors and no names had come to their attention.

He bought a new journal at the general store and chatted with Mr Neely about everything and nothing, bought some new clothes at Mr Kretzschmar’s trying to get to know something about other wealthy customers and got himself a nice pair of boots at Fitch & Sons just for the hell of it.

The best source for rumors and chatting was unsurprisingly the saloon itself and its various game tables. That was the place for wealthy men to brag, for gossip and loose tongues, if you played your cards right or knew who to buy the right drink for when the game was over. The place for less wealthy men to let go of their frustration about their workplaces. It was a place for listening wand waiting. 

A man named Joseph came in twice a week. He didn't talk much, not more than strictly necessary during a few rounds of poker. Dark hair and a beard that slowly turned grey, possibly in his forties. Handsome in a rough way. The hands he held his cards with rough from manual labour. He appeared to be as well respected as distant, just nodded as a welcome to the barkeep (_ Strange fella _ , the man told Arthur later. _ Quiet one. But he did a hell of a job with the piano’s varnish _). On bis evenings he came in, drank a beer and sat down to play a couple of hands, never went all-in, played it safe. Afterwards he smoked a cigarette and drank a whiskey and vanished again. He barely exchanged more than a few words with the nosey barkeep or other guests, was more an observer than a storyteller. 

Someone who was overlooked by the townsfolk, but always knew what was going on, Arthur mused. Mostly he just watched in silence from his place at the bar and nodded at those that he recognised. Watched Arthur, the new face in town with something that seemed to border on curiosity and wariness and something else entirely that took him a little while to figure out. 

The hidden looks. 

The one glance that lingered a little too long to be mere curiosity. 

The hesitation.

The walking around on eggshells, not to overstep, but not miss an opportunity.

Arthur had never really been a fan of the game itself. Not like some of the other people he knew for whom the chase and the slow hunt was at least as exciting as the price itself. It only left Arthur mildly annoyed and tired. He wasn’t good enough with words to charm (he wasn’t as bad as Bill at least, though that was a very low bar to begin with) and wasn’t patient enough for a long time affair without results. He was a practical man, preferred efficiency (partially because the whole Mary affair had been complicated enough and because seeing Dutch with his women hadn’t made it any better.) 

And most of the time he kept his business out of camp. 

Arthur couldn’t risk blowing his cover and getting all but a bloody nose in return, but he was sure, that if he played his cards right there might be more to gain than getting his cock sucked in a dark alleyway. 

It took Arthur a week to be sure and make a move. When the man busted out he followed him to his usual place at the bar. 

“Make it double friend.” The barkeep’s eyebrows almost met his hairline in surprise, but he did as he was told anyway, when Arthur put the coins on the counter. He found Joseph mustering him, when he turned to look at him. 

“You’re buying me a drink with my own money?”

Arthur smirked, satisfied with the amused tone. 

“I guess.” He turned around to lean back against the bar and fished his package of premium cigarettes from his coat pocket. He offered them to the other man, who took one with the tiniest moment of hesitation. Arthur put one between his own lips, before he lit a match on the counter between them. He leaned into his personal space to light both cigarettes. Joseph didn’t flinch, seemed to even lean in a little without breaking eye contact. They smoked in silence for a while, their whiskeys untouched on the countertop. 

“Archibald.” Arthur introduced himself after they had smoked in silence for a while, their upper arms just barely touching, and offered his hand. He had strong rough hands not unlike Arthur’s and a strong, powerful grib.The handshake was just a moment too long for being just polite.

“Joseph.” The man murmured, cigarette tugged between his lips bouncing with the word

“So what are you doing around here, Joseph?” Arthur asked, as he let go of his hand, eyes darting through the saloon, and grabbed his belt, as if he didn’t know already that Joseph owned the little store where Van Horn Street met Sisika Avenue. 

“Upholstering and Finishing..”

“Mr Woodcock, then?” Arthur turned to look at him again, raised his eyebrows, tone slightly mocking.

He gained a barely visible lip twitching on the stern face in return. 

“That’s just the name of the store, but yes.”

Arthur wasn’t exactly new to this game. To the stolen glances and the signs and the hidden peeks. 

The making sure far too many times. Overtime he had learned to notice. And to be noticed himself. 

Arthur turned around again and patted his shoulder, let his hand rest there for a second.

“I see you around then, Joseph Woodcock. Maybe have a look at that workshop of yours.” He took his drink from the counter, downed it and left to head upstairs for the Blackjack table. 

Arthur came by his store the next evening, just before closing time. This always was the risky moment. The part of the gamble between a punch in the jaw and a good lay.

Still Arthur had decided that it was worth the risk, enough to be gained. So he went inside and turned the shop sign around, so it told customers that it was closed already. A bell proclaimed his entrance and a fat orange tabby cat jumped from a counter to greet him and leave a bunch of orange hair on his new dark boots.

A moment later Joseph appeared from another room, that probably served as his workshop. 

His face was hard to read. Hesitation. Mistrust. Surprise. Relief. Anticipation. 

Desire, hopefully.

"You looking to buy something?" He gave him a quick once over. 

"Not really, no."

Joseph shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"You want a drink?"

"Sure."

Arthur followed him upstairs to the first floor, which housed humble living quarters. 

As Arthur had previously suspected, Joseph wasn’t the most talkative kind. 

He wasn’t talkative, not while playing poker, not over a shared drink at the bar.

Even less so, when he pressed Arthur against the door as soon as it closed behind them. He didn’t ask any trick questions, just went in for a kiss that almost felt desperate on both accounts. He didn’t talk much while fucking him either, no hushed gentle whisperings, just a few mumbled curses, lips pressed against the skin of his neck, panting, Arthur didn’t need him to talk much. He had had others who showered him in compliments, but weren’t able to look him in the eye afterwards or who still only cared for getting themselves off. Joseph wasn’t talkative, but he wasn’t selfish or uncaring and Arthur was content with not just getting a hasty hand job in a barn and it was nice not to think for once. About the job or the gang. About anything and for the time being that was more than enough. 

If asked, Joseph was willing to share some information about the people in town afterwards. Snippets of knowledge. It was like pulling teeth. Arthur couldn’t inquire him in a too obvious manner, otherwise Joseph would know that he was snooping around and he didn’t seem to be someone who enjoyed gossip.

But over a glass of gin and a shared cigarette, he was willing to speak a little. 

About the people he had worked for. Like the new upholstery he had done for the book keep Oliver Mallory’s chaise longue or the piano he had varnished for the new lawyer from the Newbury offices. All those people just kept doing their usual business, when he was around. 

As if he were invisible. 

As if he had no one to share them with. 

If he suspected any of Arthur’s ulterior motives, he didn’t say so and he didn’t really ask any further. 

He didn’t talk about himself, though.

Not about the picture that showed him twenty years younger, but with a wife and a teenage daughter.

Not about the scars that weren’t those of an upholsterer, because they appeared much more like Arthur’s own. 

Not about the engraved rifles and shotguns he kept next to a kitchen cabinet. 

But he didn’t ask personal questions either.

About Arthur’s own set of scars, that weren’t those of a wealthy real estate owner. The only thing he wanted to know, was, if Arthur intended to stay in Blackwater long term, but when Arthur negated that, he seemed satisfied enough. 

It was a comfortable arrangement. Maybe one of the things that were good and easy about being in town.

Joseph had a certain kind of sadness around him. A determined kind. Hardened. The kind that made him look rough and scowling and that seemed far too familiar. But Arthur didn't ask and Joseph never talked about it. They just fell into some sort of agreement, a mutual interest.

There wasn't much sentiment involved. They played poker and they drank and smoked and then they fucked once or twice a week, because if Arthur had to stay here he could at least make the best of it. And from time to time Joseph had some insightful information to share, that may have been irrelevant to most people. 

Arthur knew that a big job usually required patience. Especially for carefully planned con jobs like the ones Hosea preferred to do. Arthur was not a very patient man, not usually at least. Not if he could help it. 

But if he had learned one thing from Hosea - actually he learned far more than one thing from Hosea, more things than he could count to be fair - it was that for jobs like these, patience was everything. 

And in the end, being patient paid off. 

“Folk was talking about you.” 

He watched as Joseph crossed the room to wash himself at a small washbasin. There was sweat still glistening on his back. 

Arthur made a note to draw this later on. The way he stood there naked in the late afternoon half-light. He wasn’t the most talented when it came to people, but it was sight he felt the need to capture.

“Was they?” 

Joseph seemed to muster him, when he walked back to the bed and handed Arthur a fresh damp piece of cloth. 

Their interactions lingered on this weird border of intimacy and formality. As if their meetings were somehow professional in nature. They wouldn’t kiss are share any gentle touches beyond the act itself. Arthur had only once spent the night here, when they both had actually gotten a little too drunk for a change and fell asleep too fast.

Arthur could handle that. He wasn’t keen to get attached to someone. Not in a town like this. Not at all. He had tried that and it hadn’t worked out. It was comfortable and less of a risk than one time things with several people. It was a welcome distraction from his responsibilities. It kept him from thinking about other people he tried his hardest to forget.

Other possibilities.

“So what was they talking about?” Arthur asked after a while, when Joseph didn’t elaborate any further and threw the cloth into a laundry basket. Meanwhile Joseph had started to dress himself. 

“Few crooks looking for some land to buy and build on. Cheap. Word in town is, you’re looking to sell.” Joseph crossed his arms over a broad still naked chest and covered the ugly scar on one of his pectorals, that looked like the remnant of a severe knife wound. Arthur felt his eyes on him. He grabbed his union suit from the floor and started to put it on. 

"You heard right, I guess." He put his pants on. "So how can I find those mysterious buyers?"

Joseph squinted his eyes. 

"Didn't take you for someone dumb enough to sell to people like them. They’re gonna set you up."

"Don't you worry about me." Arthur fastened his belt and met Joseph’s still skeptical eyes. He grinded his jaws. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. 

"Go play Blackjack tonight. They’ll be looking for you." 

* * *

“Seems while we’re trying to scam them, they tried to scam us. Or me.” Arthur chuckled. “Or they want to scam Archibald out of a piece of land that doesn’t even exist.”

“Greedy idiots.” Hosea got a piece of bread out of his own satchel and threw it at the still curious seagull. “How did you find them?”

“I didn’t. They found me, mostly. Went for a game and they was already waiting.” 

“Who was?”

“Steele, the architect. Bookkeep named Mallory and someone from the Newbury offices. Acted like I didn’t know they was coming.” 

Arthur kept his eyes on the seagull that was now screaming at a cat that had found interest in the leftover bread and pushed it around with its paw. 

“But you knew.” Hosea didn’t pose it as a question. 

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Anyway, they thought me unawares of their whole game, bought me a nice couple of drinks and left me their card.” He pulled a business card from his chest pocket and handed it over to Hosea. “In case I ever need a favor or a piece of advice.” He didn’t even try not to sound smug. 

“Archibald, my boy.” Hosea sounded almost triumphant now. Excited. Young. “Let’s get back to camp. I think we earned ourselves a couple of drinks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
I know Arthur wrote in his journal that they set up camp basically in Blackwater, but I decided to put it in the woods next to Aurora Basin. It honestly makes a lot more sense considering that they came from the Grizzlies and flee into the Grizzlies later on. In comparison to their other hideouts this place is really fitting to. It has fresh water and can be guarded. The isn't a place like this near Blackwater and they wouldn't set up camp that out in the open.  
Joseph is acutally loosely based on a character from another game.
> 
> There probably will be some other ships in this fic. If you want to know them beforehand don't be shy to ask. Same goes for warnings that may arise.
> 
> If you want to talk, don't be shy to find me on Tumblr [the-other-bird](http://the-other-bird.tumblr.com) or Twitter [@ItsAnotherBird](https://twitter.com/ItsAnotherBird)


	2. Friction

"Does the weather know it's almost goddamn May?" John blew some warm air into his hands, tried to produce a little warmth by rubbing them together. He had no idea where his gloves were, probably somewhere in camp, depending on who stole them. John wasn’t a fan of the cold. Hated it. It was worse than the rain. It crept into his bones too easily. Why did he even need gloves, when the weather was supposed to get warmer instead of colder? He shoved his feet close enough to the fire that the flames started licking at the soles of his boots, ready to consume them. His outburst barely got any reaction from Charles, who sat across from John on a wooden box and smoked a pipe in silence.

Charles didn't talk much, something John didn't really mind. It was hard to tell what was on the man's mind most of the time. He wasn’t provoked easily, avoided the unnecessary conflicts that arose in camp from time to time. If John was asked, they could need more people like Charles Smith. Not that anybody ever asked John. 

After what felt like an eternity Charles put the pipe away and shrugged. "We could even get some snow."

"’You kidding?"

Charles laughed, so low it was mostly gulped by the crackling fire between them. He shook his head. "No."

John grunted and shoved his hands under his armpits to keep them warm.

Awadbass Point wasn't the worst place they had ever camped at. It was easy enough to guard, well hidden inside the woods of Tall Trees, game as well as fish was easy to come by and still John found himself in a sour mood. 

Maybe it was the cold.

His eyes wandered around the camp. At the shore of Auora Basin Sean and Jack played what appeared to be a sword fight with sticks.The kid’s giggly laughter filled the air. After Jack was declared the winner, Sean put his hat onto the boy and for a while the kid pretended to be Sean, when talking to others.

Jack seemed to get along better with everybody than him. Javier let him play with his guitar, something no one else really was allowed to touch. Mary-Beth read to him. Karen showed him how to throw rocks on the lake and how to make them jump on the ater. Every time someone got into town, they brought back some little treat for him. A little thing to make the kid happy and make up for the fact that he was on the run with them and that he didn’t have any friends his age. Maybe John would’ve an easier time if Abigail hadn’t decided that he of all people was supposed to be the father.

So it could've been the cold that soured his mood. Or the waiting. Or the uselessness he felt. 

“They’re coming back.” Charles’ voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned around to see Hosea und Arthur riding into camp.

They stood out like a sore thumb - or mainly Arthur did. With the fine red coat and the pomaded hair, his usual beard shaved off, he didn’t seem like someone who spent most of his days in the wilderness. They was city clothes, easily ruined by blood and dirt. It wasn’t that it looked bad. It just didn’t look much like Arthur. John watched as he patted Boadicea’s neck and gave her a treat. 

Whatever the role had been, that Hosea had come up with for Arthur, it must have been successful. Hosea hummed and Arthur oozed that certain kind of smugness, when they headed for Dutch’s tent, greeting everyone they came across. John even got a nod from Arthur and a mumbled not unfriendly “Marston”, which meant that he was in a good mood. 

That was all John got if he was lucky these days. If Arthur had nothing but a neutral nod for him instead of a comment dripping with venom, John was counting it as a good sign. Nods had become more frequent in the last months. It was unfortunate that his mood would surely be ruined far too fast. 

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Dutch greeted them, loud and humorous, making the whole ordeal too much of a spectacle. 

It was too much to say that all activity in camp stopped, yet most eyes were on them. It was what they all had been waiting for after all. 

"We got it, Dutch." Hosea answered and grabbed the other man’s shoulder. “We know how to cheat the town right out of it’s money.” Arthur hummed in agreement.

There was a tensed weird pause, some looks exchanged. John knew the reason already. Knew that Micah Bell had rode into camp a few days ago with a lead of his own and had started to spin his yarn about the big money. About the ferry one of his contacts told him about, about the money coming in on that goddamn boat. John had to admit, it was tempting. Far too tempting. Almost too easy. "_ Like stealing candy from a baby _." Micah had exclaimed, loud enough for everyone to hear. 

There were obvious concerns to be had. Really obvious ones, but Dutch - that much was sure - had been hooked immediately and with Arthur and Hosea in town, no one seemed willing to raise any concerns.

"What is it?" Hosea asked, when Dutch didn’t show the excitement that he probably expected.

John saw Dutch avoiding Hosea's gaze. He shook Hosea’s hand off and crossed his arms in almost childlike spite.

"Micah..." Dutch started and Hosea already let out an annoyed groan, but Dutch seemed to regain his confidence again and cleared his throat. "There's money coming in on a boat. 150,000 in cash, Hosea."

"Dutch." John knew that tone by heart, everyone did. Mild annoyance, strained nerves. Mild begging. A lot of times this was more than enough to convince Dutch that something was a horrible idea. "You want to rob a ferry? Really? You know how hard that is? How much planning we'll need? Arthur and I -” Hosea gestured between the both of them. Arthur watched in silence. “- we have a real lead. Big money. And they'll give it to us without even one bullet being shot. They'll gonna pay us for scamming them, thinking they scam us, Dutch. It's perfect. We'll be long gone before they'll even notice that the land we are selling them doesn't even exist."

John was as always, just as most of them, left as an observer. It was always Dutch, Hosea and Arthur making plans, with the rest of them waiting until they had figured it out. No one had ever asked John, what he thought about it.

Micah had already sold a lot of the people in camp to this ferry job. The Callander boys had started to grow restless, not being really allowed in town, because they would only lose their temper and blow their cover. Bill was sold on it, too and Javier was less sure, but trusted Dutch enough to do as he was told.

The rest of them waited for Hosea and Arthur and what they had come up with during their congame. Everyone knew a big job like this wouldn’t happen if they weren’t in on it.

"What Arthur and I found out, it's basically a gift. It's low risk. If it doesn't work we can still do your ferry heist." 

"Ferry's due in a week, old man." Micah had already lingered around the tent for a while, had made his way from the other campfire to wait for his moment. From his place John couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but his posture changed immediately. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, straightened his shoulders, raised his head and turned towards the unbidden intruder. 

"Can't remember askin' for your opinion, cowpoke." He took a step towards Micah, almost casually. His voice was calm, amused almost. As if he couldn’t believe that someone even dared to shove themselves into their conversation without being asked to. 

There were rules in camp.

Unspoken ones.

Rules that most men in camp learned quickly enough, when they tried to challenge them.

Everyone could grasp the tension. Could see Micah weighing his chances, eyes switching between Arthur and Dutch, looking for some backup. A lot of the new men had tried to challenge Arthur. Challenge the rules and until now everyone had failed eventually. Some just had just needed more convincing than others. Micah turned to look for aid from Mac, Davey and Bill, but they just stared into the fire, avoiding his eyes. John suppressed a snort. 

When Micah realized his miscalculation, he made a face, spat on the floor and went for the campfire, where Mac and Bill were sharing a whiskey, hissing at them to shut it, when Mac chuckled.

John used to challenge Arthur. Constantly. About everything and nothing. Because he wanted his attention. Wanted to be taken seriously. Wanted the place Arthur had.

For a long time John had wanted to be Arthur Morgan. Wanted to be feared and trusted and respected.

Somewhere along the way "I want to be him" had turned itself upside down.

John didn't know when "I want to be like him" had stopped being true.

Or maybe it had never been.

Maybe that only had been what he thought was true, because everything else seemed unthinkable and hopeless at best and horrible and terrifying at worst.

He had lived on the in hindsight naive thought that leaving would solve his problems. That he would come back and he was no longer supposed to be a father to a child (maybe Abigail had left as she was better off without him anyway) and he was no longer feeling his throat dry and his chest hurt, when he looked at Arthur. But nothing had solved itself. Instead he met an even more furious Abigail and an Arthur, who was filled with so much hate, it scared him, but for some reason not even that had helped. It had just started to hurt more.

"We can't rob a ferry, Dutch. There will be guards and there's no way to quickly escape from the pier. There's barely a way to get out of town without casualties." They had taken the arguing into Dutch’s tent now. Hosea’s voice was dulled by the closed canvas. John watched the flames for a while and tried to make out the words. 

"We have capable men and we're stronger than ever, Hosea. Trust me. Look at our people. We can do it, I know we can."

"I don't know, Dutch. Hosea and I, our thing, it's safe."

"Arthur, what happened to you? Since when do you like to play it safe? Gentlemen, this is our way out. Hell, why not do both? We do the ferry job, hide the money in Blackwater and head out west. Next day you boys carry out your scheme, take our money and follow us. What can go wrong?"

"Everything."

After that John couldn’t hear them anymore. Busyness seemed to return to the gang. Charles stood up to take up his guard shift and instead Lenny, Mary-Beth and Karen joined John.

“You think, we’re doing it?” Lenny settled down on one of the furs next to the fire, curious eyes on John. He shrugged. 

“Hell, if I know.”

This was the problem with Hosea and Arthur playing their congames in town. With them being away no one had any chance to calm down Dutch's excitement. Rationalize it. By the time they arrived in camp, Dutch and Micah already had come up with their ingenious plan of robbing a boat in the middle of town.

John often wondered how Micah had managed that within only a couple of months, how he managed to not only get into Dutch's good graces, but earned the privilege to be listened to. To be heard. Be an advisor. Something John had never acquired - as much as Arthur liked to call him the Golden Boy. Most of times he wasn’t more than an extra gun. 

Dutch never really came to ask for his opinion - or had given up on it - let alone involved him into decisions that influenced the future of the gang. All the talk about the great things he had seen in John seemed to have resolved into nothing.

Maybe John really wasn't good or smart enough.

Maybe they were better off without him after all. 

But Micah.

Micah seemed to know when to step in. The moment Hosea and Arthur left camp, he tried to fill their place. 

Not everyone was easily swayed of course, but those of them who felt restricted by their gang code from time to time, men like the Callanders or Bill, who irked to lose control, they got hooked.

And the others? They waited.

Waited for Hosea and Arthur to come back and take matters into their hands.

When Arthur finally joined them at the fire, it was hard to tell if they had reached a decision. Arthur didn’t seem to be in his good mood anymore though. He looked drained and tired. 

"What happened to you, Arthur?" Lenny joked and offered Arthur a sip from a bottle of whiskey. "Someone kidnapped you?"

Arthur chuckled, a low amused rumble deep in his chest, that John particularly liked. It was a comforting, well-known sound. He took a swig from the bottle and returned it to its owner "Don't know what you mean, kid." Arthur lit one of those fancy cigarettes, that came with the ridiculous picture cards. 

"You look like some bloody city slicker, is what he means." Bill bellowed from his place at the other fire. Bill was all bark no bite. Everyone knew he wasn't a real challenge. Even Bill knew that.

"And that's why I got to stay in town and sleep in a bed, while you hang around in camp all day doing nothing."

Bill just answered with a rumbled curse.

"I don't mind the clothes." Mary-Beth mumbled. It wasn't clear if Arthur heard it. If so he ignored it.

"We know." Karen seemed mildly annoyed.

It was one of those well-known truths in camp. That Mary-Beth fancied Arthur, looked at him like he was some knight in shining armor right out of one of her storybooks. It was hard to tell if Arthur wasn't aware of it, or if he just chose to ignore it. It was just as well-known as the fact that Dutch had his eye on Mary-Beth since she joined. There were some not serious bets going around, what would be the outcome, until Hosea got wind of it, confiscated all the wagers and put an end to it.

"Marston."

John jerked his head up, when Arthur suddenly addressed him. 

"What?!" The defensiveness was instinct. An old habit far too easy to slip in. 

"I gotta talk to you. Now."

"What about?"

Arthur ignored his question, just threw the stub of his cigarette into the fire and headed for the rims of camp, where the trees started to gulp most of the light. John groaned, but decided to follow. Micah had soured Arthur's mood. He wasn't keen on worsening it. 

It was rare these days. That they talked. Just the two of them. John had tried for a while and when that hadn't worked out, he had chosen to avoid it like the plague instead.

"’You kiddin' me?" Arthur started, when John arrived at his place, out of earshot of any nosey camp members.

"What?!"

“’What’?" Arthur had the ability to tower over people without actually being taller. To make his counterpart feel small and defenseless, just by invading their personal space. "We were gone for - what? - a week? And you just sit here, head in the clouds, lazing about, letting Micah spin his yarn around Dutch? The man's a spider and you just let him do it?" It felt like a slap in the face.

"Me? And where have you been, huh? You know Dutch doesn't listen to any of us! But Mister High and Mighty preferred the town, like you're something better than the rest of us." John knew that arguing was pointless and that every word would just fuel Arthur’s anger, but he had always been horrible at not biting when being backed into a corner. 

"You know, if you had anything in that head of yours that wasn't air- “ Arthur took another step forward, tipped his finger against John’s temple, who jerked his head away. “- he would actually listen to you. Maybe you shouldn't have come back in the first place considering that you are absolutely useless. Maybe you should just pack up your things and leave, 'cause it wouldn't make a goddamn difference."

John only realized that he had moved backwards, when his back met the trunk of a tree.

"What is it, Johnny, fight or flight? Gonna run again, tail between your legs?" His voice was low, dripping with venom. He always knew how to hit where it hurt the most.They both did.

It was one of those things John had started to avoid a long time ago, at least if he could. Sharing a tent. Sharing a horse. Sharing personal space. Arthur was close enough now that he could smell the faint odor of whiskey and smoke on his breath. Close enough that John could feel his chest tighten and had to force his breathing to calm. He should have said something. How Arthur should have been here. That Micah never would have had this chance if Arthur and Hosea had been here. That none of this was his goddamn fault and that Arthur knew it. 

But he just stood there, forced himself to stare back at Arthur, who's angry eyes almost begged him to say something, anything. Something to make him explode. Push him over the edge. It was hard not to look at his lips, to just stare into those accusing eyes that he knew to well. Wasn't sure if he should start the fight, make him somehow come closer, push him away. It was like this for far too long already.

They had always been good at arguing. Pushing each other’s buttons. But before they could laugh it off afterwards. They would share a cigarette, Arthur had ruffled through his hair and John had tried not to lean into it. Not too obviously at least. 

Because ultimately they knew they could trust each other. 

But that had been _ before _. 

It was Hosea's voice that saved him, not for the first time. Probably not for the last. Always worked like charm.

"Don't get shot." Arthur turned away from him, made a throwaway gesture and headed towards Hosea, who looked at John, head slightly tilted. Hosea kept standing there, even when Arthur passed him and headed for Dutch's tent. Finally he turned away and followed Arthur.

John slowly made his way back to camp, got himself a bottle of beer from Pearson's waggon on the way. He could hear the faint voices of Arthur, Dutch and Hosea discuss what they would do. How this would work out. How they could pull off both jobs at once.

Could see Micah linger around the tent, waiting for his moment like some kind of vulture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Arthur is kind of an asshole in this chapter (even though he CAN be quite an asshole).  
I'd be happy to hear your thoughts!
> 
> If you want to talk, don't be shy to find me on Tumblr [the-other-bird](http://the-other-bird.tumblr.com) or Twitter [@ItsAnotherBird](https://twitter.com/ItsAnotherBird)


	3. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the delay. I struggled a little with this chapter, which includes the events of the "Blackwater Massacre", so I allowed myself to get a little distracted.
> 
> The biggest thanks goes out to my beta [Scrambled Still](https://twitter.com/ScrambledStill) (who makes amazing art, please check it out!) who made this like ten times better. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: animal death, canon typical violence, severe character injury, gun violence

Arthur was nervous. He was drumming his fingers on the wooden desk. He tapped his foot and kept changing his posture until Hosea made him stop with a single glance and a raised eyebrow. 

They had gone over the plan enough times already, far too many times. Every little detail, until Dutch had thrown his hands in the air and requested them to just stop with that reassuring smile of his, asked Arthur and Hosea to just _ trust him _ a little. He knew what he was doing, didn’t he? 

According to Dutch nothing could go wrong. As long as everybody knew their place.

"You could at least try to not look so spooked." Hosea's words sounded hollow. He had picked his cobbler apart with a fork. The sweet smell of the peaches made Arthur's stomach churn. He wrinkled his nose when Hosea offered the plate to him shaking his head. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, resisting the temptation to reach for his revolver, to make sure it was still where it belonged. He had stowed away a lot of his stuff in his room upstairs, including two of his long guns. Now he started to regret that decision.

From his place at the window table at the saloon he tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on at the pier. It was impossible to see anything. On the street people seemed to be minding their own business. He watched Joseph enter Mr Neely's general store. Arthur had gone to see him yesterday evening, later than usual, head buzzing with whiskey and unrest and the inability to calm his thoughts about the stupid ferry job.

He took a look at his pocket watch.

The boat was due in about ten minutes. By now everyone was supposed to be at their assigned places. John, Dutch, Jenny and Micah would board as soon as possible, create a distraction and escape with a longboat and the money. The others would stand guard, waiting in case anyone showed up and prevent them from entering the boat. A few would follow behind to get rid of the guards on the boat, as quietly as possible. Get the money and get out. If necessary the gang would create a distraction in town so Dutch could escape with the money. Everyone involved would meet back at camp before heading out west together. 

Tomorrow Hosea and Arthur would carry out their coup, looking spooked enough about the events in town to convince those crooks that they just wanted to get the deal over with. Lenny and Mary-Beth had helped Hosea falsify the papers they needed.

Arthur watched Joseph leaving the store, their eyes met for a second, but neither of them showed any sign of acknowledgement.

Should've told him to get out of town, Arthur thought but pushed the idea away quickly. It would only have made him suspicious. Nothing to be gained. He had almost done so, before he had left last night. Sentimental fool.

"I have a bad feeling about this." Arthur started to shake his foot again. 

"I know." Hosea put his fork down and leaned back in his chair.

"We should've stopped him."

"We tried. You know him, Arthur, we were too late. He’d already made up his mind.”

Hosea looked as frustrated as Arthur himself felt . He was obviously uneasy, eyes flitting between the road outside, Arthur and the leftovers on his plate. Suddenly he sat up straight, eyes focused on something outside.

"Something's wrong. Those are Pinkertons."

Hosea's and Arthur's gaze followed a group of well-dressed and armed men on the street. They seemed calm, but keen. 

"Could be coincidence." Arthur didn't sound convinced at all. "Maybe they just look like them."

"I don't like this."

Another group of men followed, policemen this time, heavily armed, nervous, two of them on horseback, headed towards the pier at the end of the street.

Arthur got up too quickly, his chair tumbling over with a loud rumble that turned every head in the saloon in their direction.

Something got the people outside into motion, civilians ran , a woman fell to the ground, as she stepped on the hem of her dress.

Then there were gunshots and motion became chaos. In the saloon people called for each other, screaming could be heard from the street. 

Hosea and Arthur exchanged a single look and ran out onto the road, where Silver Dollar and Boadicea were hitched to a post. Their ears twitched nervously. At the end of the street a barricade of armed forces blocked the road obscuring the view onto the pier. Arthur took Hosea by the shoulder. 

“Get to camp and warn the others. They need to get moving.” 

Hosea didn't argue, just grabbed his forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Be safe. Get the others out alive."

Arthur nodded. 

Hosea got onto Silver Dollar and was off in a gallop .

Arthur felt his chest tighten. He tried to breathe, to calm himself. He headed down main street, to see what was going on, stopping a man that was trying to run away with an iron grip around his arm.

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded. He wasn't feeling particularly patient. "Outlaws." The man tried to flee, pulling at his arm and hurried down the street. People turned towards Arthur , probably wondered why he was running towards the mess instead of away from it, like some airheaded wannabe gunslinger that hadn’t fired a single shot in his entire life. There were gunshots yet again, followed by screams. Then all hell broke loose.

Lawmen and Pinkertons had formed a barrier that had now been broken by a few men on horses galloping in, guns blazing. He spotted Javier and Charles first, Taima and Boaz quick as the wind, spurred on by the noise and turmoil around them. Arthur hid in an alley, killing two men, as they tried to get onto their horses. Bill and the Callander boys followed suit. Bill whistled for Brown Jack, but the sound got swallowed by the jumble of voices and gunfire. There was a scream, when one of the bullets hit its target burying itself in Mac's leg, causing him to stumble and fall. 

"No!" Davey, who had almost reached the alley Arthur was hiding in, turned on his heel, tried to get to his brother, who was already within reach of the Pinkertons. Another bullet hit Davey. Bill used the element of surprise to grab him and pull him into the alley, while Arthur watched Mac being carried away. He had a clear shot but remained in hiding. There were just too many, all he would do was draw attention to himself, Bill and Davey, who were trying to escape through the alleyway. Arthur hurried after them into another narrow alley. At end of the street Bill whistled for his horse again. This time the stallion appeared. Arthur helped Davey on the animal behind Bill. The man moaned and clutched his belly, dark blood seeping through his fingers. Bill rode off and Arthur whistled for Boadicea and took off himself, pushing the mare to her limits.

The forest was too far away, the plains too open to flee without being seen. He could only hope that everyone had scattered sufficiently so they couldn't be followed by the Pinkertons as easily.

His only chance - everyone’s only chance - was to reach the forest, disappear amongst the trees and get to camp unseen. He needed to reach the trees.

He spotted John and Jenny at the outskirts of Tall Trees on a horse that wasn't Old Boy. The stallion had been needed to pull a waggon out of the camp. They were chased by three lawmen.

Arthur drew his revolver and pushed Boadicea a little more. 

"C'mon, girl", he urged her on. The mare whinnied, her breath escaping her nostrils in a cloud in the too cold air. Arthur concentrated, held his breath and took a shot. 

The first attempt missed the man, but hit his horse in the flank. The animal let out a pained sound as its leg buckled. The horse stumbled and buried its rider underneath its body. The two other men slowed, turned around and took aim at Arthur, just when John and Jenny broke through the treeline. Arthur considered them with a curt but relieved nod. The two guns aimed at him did not leave him much time to think. He just rode straight at them, not slowing Boadicea down in the slightest. Turning his back at them would’ve led to certain death. It took them by surprise. As he passed them, he managed to land a shot at one of them and spooked the man’s horse in the process, which threw the man off and stormed away in panic. The other seemed overwhelmed, dumbstruck for a moment and Arthur fired two shots in his general direction as he finally reached the brushwood. 

And then the world turned itself upside down. 

The sound of a gunshot, a yank going through the mare’s body and the horse screamed, her hooves catching on a log on the ground as she tried to escape. Arthur landed harshly on the ground, air was pressed out of his lungs, as he rolled into the bushes, face in the dirt. 

Someone might have called his name. 

He blinked disoriented, spitting out a mouthful of blood and fir needles.

Marston and Jenny. 

_ Don't turn around. _

It felt like a prayer.

_ Don't come looking for me. _

Run.

Arthur closed his eyes, waited. Listened.

_ Leave me. _

He tried to calm his breathing. There seemed to be no severe injuries, at least no imminent ones. He suppressed the urge to get up and look for Boadicea, ignored her fearful, pained neighing. Footsteps and rustling in the underwood. A gunshot. The horse was quiet. Arthur swallowed, fought against the quelling anger inside him that nested in his gut. He tasted blood, possibly he’d bit his tongue, when his head had met the ground. He opened his eyes again.

He had lost his gun during the fall, but shooting would make too much noise anyway leading to attention he couldn't afford now.

Rustling. Closer. Short, shaky breaths.

The man seemed nervous. Afraid. His hands were probably shaking. That's why he had killed the horse. Couldn't stand the pain and fear and suffering. This could work to Arthur’s advantage. 

Slowly Arthur reached for the knife at his belt, relieved to find it still in its usual place and got up as slowly and soundlessly as he could, remaining in a crouched position hidden behind a mossy tree trunk.

He ignored the pain in his body, there was enough time to deal with that tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow. If he made it out of here alive - if he didn't, …He brushed the thought away with a shake of his head. 

Nothing seemed to be broken, nothing but bruises that would stay with him for the next couple of weeks.

He dared to take a quick look over the trunk. The lawman had lost his hat, he held his gun with violently shaking hands, nervously pointing it at every little noise around him. He was young like Sean maybe. Still green. The twilight of the forest wasn’t easy to handle for city boy like him. 

Cannon fodder.

Killing wasn't something Arthur enjoyed. Not like Micah or Bill, who got high from the violence. Who liked to overdo it.

He enjoyed the thrill of a fight. Letting go. The adrenaline of losing control.

But Arthur didn't like to kill. He was just good at it. Effective. Not a hunter, just a butcher.

It didn't keep him awake at night.

He knew when to keep it together. How to control himself, not make a sound, to get close enough to an opponent to strike the deadly blow.

He knew weaknesses like the man's fear. He would shoot at Arthur as soon as he made a sound, would alert everyone searching for them. Call for the search parties with the bloodhounds and send them after them.

Arthur knew that he had to be fast and quiet. Patient.

Staying in his crouched position he slowly moved closer, eyes fixed on the back of the man's head, always remaining behind him, knife in hand. Out of sight.

It went over quickly and quietly. Arthur grabbed the man from behind, one gloved hand on his mouth and slit his throat with the other. Held him, until he stopped struggling and lowered him to the ground, the metallic stench of blood almost overwhelming.

He could've knocked him out. Maybe he would've if he hadn't killed Boadicea. Probably not though. It was safer this way.

Arthur wiped the blade clean on his coat, sheathed it and picked up the revolver the lawman had dropped. He listened for more footsteps. When nothing could be heard, he went to look for Boadicea. The first bullet that had lead to her fall had hit her flank, the lethal shot her temple. He stroked her neck, thanked her quietly and forced himself to leave her behind. There wasn’t enough time.

It was hard. The mare had been his companion for the last couple of years, he had stolen her from a breeder in Minnesota, who always got thrown off. Hosea stole several of his rings, Dutch took off with his wife (who later married a reliable farmer on the coast) and Arthur stole his horse.

Another exchange of fire pulled him violently out of his thoughts and forced him to move. He followed the noises, the shouts, muted by the close standing trees. He stumbled upon two dead Pinkerton's and a little farther north he found John hunched over on the floor, pressing his hands on Jenny's side. Blood was seeping through his fingers. His face was white as a sheet. The red was soaking her pretty blue dress. Her hands reached helplessly for John's.

Arthur lowered himself to the ground next to them and only then John looked up, pupils blown wide.

The girl's forehead was shining with cold sweat, teary eyes wide with fear and disbelief as she noticed Arthur next to her.

"I'm sorry." She reached for him, tried to get hold of his coat, left clammy dark bloody handprints on the expensive material. 

There wasn't much to be done. The wound was between her ribs, there was a good chance the bullet had perforated her lung judging by her rattling gasps, but there was no wound on her back, no blood pooling beneath her. Maybe they could get her to camp. Get the bullet out. 

"You're going to be okay, kid, alright?" He tried to sound like he believed it. "I need you to stay calm. I'm going to get you out of here."

She nodded, tried to say something, but nothing but a bloody gargling left her lips.

Arthur had no bandages with him. They were all in his saddlebags and he had left them behind with Boadicea. 

He took off the ridiculous scarf he was wearing as part of his disguise. He took off his coat, too, and sliced it in two with his knife.

"Marston."

John didn't answer, just stared at him, begging him to take over. Arthur gave him a quick onceover. There was a wound from a grazing shot on his upper arm. It was bleeding, but not horribly so. Something to take care of later.

"I need you to take your hands away."

John nodded and let go of Jenny's wound, immediately there was a gush of blood. Arthur pressed his scarf on the wound, grabbed under her and held her up. He looked at John.

"Take the coat. Fasten it around her."

Marston did as he was told, even though his fingers were shaking. Jenny sobbed when he fastened the coat tightly around her. Arthur took his hand away from the wound and picked her up. She seemed to weigh almost nothing.

They needed to get going. Find a place to hide at least until nightfall.

"I need you to cover me. I can’t shoot while I’m carrying her."

John nodded, scrambled to his feet. He still seemed distraught. It was irritating. Blood and injuries weren’t something Marston couldn’t stomach, nothing that made him lose his nerves. Not like this. 

"What the hell happened?" Arthur asked under his breath, as they made their way toward Aurora Basin. It had started to snow, the cold crept through Arthur's clothes quickly. His shirt was dark with blood. Jenny's or the lawman's, it was hard to tell.

"I don't know. Fuck." Marston winced, as he grabbed his own arm like he only now noticed to wound there. So it must've happened recently, not on the ferry. "It went down too fast."

"Where's your horse?"

"Threw me off. Hope it gets to camp. Where's Hosea?"

"Hope he made it to camp fast enough. Warn the others. Get moving."

For a while Jenny's shaky breaths were the only noise between them.

"There's a shack near camp." John finally said. "We can..." His eyes rested on Jenny "Rest there. Maybe wait for the others to find us, if they are gone already."

Arthur knew that carrying the girl wasn’t doing her any good. That she was just losing more blood as they walked, so he nodded even though the thought of being trapped made him uneasy. The gang was hopefully already on the move - only god knew in what direction.

The shack didn't really deserve the name. It smelled like decay and foul fish and bearshit, but maybe that would keep the bloodhounds away for a while.

Arthur lowered Jenny to the ground as careful as he could. He didn't know what the best way was. Keep her upright? He decided to lean her against the wall. Her lips had lost their rosy color, the circles under her eyes were deep and dark but she tried a weak smile, as he gently pushed her hair away that was sticking to her cold sweaty forehead.

"Don't fall asleep, okay? Stay here with us."

She nodded. "I'm cold."

Arthur joined John, who was keeping guard at the wall opening, that didn't deserve the word door.

He looked horrible. Different. Like a beaten, cornered dog.

"How is she?" Barely a whisper.

Arthur leaned against the wall and hoped it wouldn’t give way . 

"Dying."

_ You okay? _

Is what he should've asked. Wasn’t about the arm, but about his whole demeanor. What had frightened him so deeply? It’s what he would’ve asked _ before _.

"How's that arm of yours?" He gestured lamely to the wound.

"It's nothin’."

"You're not gonna pass out on me, are you? I can't carry you both."

"Fuck you, Arthur."

"Show me."

John stared at him as if he had offered an amputation. "Why?"

"Because you're bleedin’ and there will be bloodhounds behind us. I can't have us leaving a trail. Now stop acting so ridiculous and show me your arm."

When Arthur tried to reach for it, John pulled away so quickly like he was burned by the touch.

"I said it's fine. Leave me be. I'm not the one the bloodhounds will be after anyway." His eyes went to Jenny in her corner, who kept staring into nothingness.

"Whatever." Arthur crossed his arms. "Get an infection then. See if I care."

"I know you don't."

Arthur only smiled mildy at the snappy comeback, but fought back another shiver as the wind blew through the shack. The snow was falling in bigger flakes now, like tiny white frozen cotton balls.

"Where's Bo?"

Arthur felt a pang of what? guilt? in his chest, when John mentioned her.

"Didn't make it. Lawman shot her."

"I'm sorry."

John's voice made him look up, startled him, but John kept staring into the woods, expression unreadable.

"What for?"

"I know you cared about that horse."

Arthur frowned and dared to look at Jenny. She had almost lost all her color, eyes half lidded and heavy, glassy, looking at everything and nothing.

"Nothing you could've done about it."

"You've seen anyone else?"

"Javier and Charles got out, I think. Saw Davey gettin’ shot in the gut in town. " Arthur took a deep breath. "What about Dutch?"

John seemed to react physically. Made a face. Almost winced at the name.

"I don't know. It was swarming with Pinkerton's. Like they only waited for us. Dutch... " John turned around to look at him, face as if in pain. "He shot a girl, Arthur. I couldn't do nothing."

"That doesn't sound like him."

Arthur returned to Jenny, sat down next to her on the cold, damp floor, the remnants of planks. She was shivering.

"You should've been there."

Arthur looked up at John's sudden accusation. The venom.

"None of us should've been there. Hosea and I, we had a plan."

"You two could have stopped him, if you had been in camp. You know that. Don't take this out on me, Morgan. None of this would have happened if you had been there."

That was them now. Always fighting. Accusing. They couldn't hold a decent conversation without going at each other's throats.

Out of instinct.

Not even here. Even with Jenny dying next to them, lawmen at their heels, they weren’t able to let go of it.

Right now, right here, Arthur hated him for it. For putting out there what he was already feeling and thinking. His own failure. 

They stared at each other waiting for the next move like a pair of wolves waiting for their opponent to make wrong move. The tension was almost palpable. 

Both their heads snapped around, when they heard the barking of dogs outside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to talk, don't be shy to find me on Tumblr [the-other-bird](http://the-other-bird.tumblr.com) or Twitter [@ItsAnotherBird](https://twitter.com/ItsAnotherBird)
> 
> You can also ask me questions about other upcoming relationships, tags or state wishes, if you want to.
> 
> Since I struggled quite a lot with this chapter, some nice words would be appreciated.


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